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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23410489">This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account'>orphan_account</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Men's Football RPF, Sports RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Everyone Is Gay, FIFA World Cup 2018, Fluff, Humor, Light Angst, Love/Hate, M/M, Marcus is the cutest bean, Non-Famous Eric, Sex, Sexual Tension</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 08:01:38</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,945</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23410489</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The One Where Dele Alli, famous England footballer, moves in across the hallway and fucks everything up.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dele Alli/Eric Dier, Jesse Lingard/Marcus Rashford, John Stones/Kyle Walker</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>70</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. i</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>this whole fic is literally me attempting comedy for thousands and thousands of words, I had a great time writing this, its lighter than what I usually do!</p><p>So basically, Eric, Marcus, John and Kyle are non-famous, not footballers, just mere mortals like the rest of us and then Dele and Jesse are still England footballers. This is theatrical, humourous, sweet at times, don't take it seriiously, its not real and I don't know any of them personally. </p><p>Title - This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things by Taylor Swift. </p><p>enjoy x</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>When Eric arrives home through the door, bringing with him the weird coldness of an English May and a hint of cigarette, his flatmate, Marcus, is baking a cake. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>After six hard, gruelling months with living with such a person, Eric figures he should be used to it by now but the sight of Marcus, hovering around the kitchen with flour splashed onto his cheeks makes Eric feel like walking straight back out the door again. Because </span>
  <em>
    <span>what? </span>
  </em>
  <span>And also, why?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>If he isn’t baking a cake he’s visiting an orphanage and if he’s somehow not <em>there</em> then he’s out on the streets talking to homeless people. It isn’t like he has to work, his parents are loaded and give millions to charities all over the globe. Eric mostly feels like he’s living with the second coming of Jesus Christ when <em>he</em> in comparison scowls at homeless people because they look like they smell and avoids orphanages because he isn’t that good with children. And yet somehow, the stars aligned and here they were, living together, after Eric needed someone to split the rent with and the lack of actual numbers of friends in his phone meant he had to resort to <em>Marcus Rashford,</em> of all people, who made Eric feel like he was a terrible, terrible person.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And hey, maybe he was but to be <em>constantly</em> reminded of it? <em>That sucked. </em></span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>‘‘What are you doing?’’ He decides to ask, albeit reluctantly as he shrugs off his coat and hangs it up.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The flat smells like lemon and the TV is blasting Katy Perry whilst Marcus’ iPhone vibrates from the edge of the table. And if Michelangelo could paint this scene he would probably use the colours of red and orange and try to erase Eric from the picture subtly so as not to kill the joyful atmosphere.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcus predictably turns around with an easy grin and accidentally bumps into the fridge but his grin doesn’t falter one bit. ‘‘<em>Eric!</em> Hey!’’</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>‘ ‘Hi’.’ Eric deadpans. ‘What are you doing? You know I could just buy chips or something, you don’t need to bake a cake and be all extra about it.’'</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> Their flat was perched on the outskirts of Northern London, mostly separate from the rampant inner city gang culture but still distinctly <em>urban</em>. Chicken and chips shops were littered left, right and bloody centre. It was no wonder a recent local newspaper had said that obesity in the area was at a twenty year high. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And then, like he’s trying to wind him up or something, Marcus brings out an extra special ingredient; sprinkles. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Sprinkles.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>'‘It’s not for us.’’ He says, quickly checking his phone. He’s popular with everyone in town, so it makes sense that people are constantly texting him every damn minute. He’s too humble to admit it but observation of the amount of Marcus’ guests and friends makes it clear that he was widely adored at secondary school and consequently university.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> He went to a private school, just like Eric did, although very different. St John’s was an unforgiving place with constant scrutiny by peers and teachers alike whilst Marcus’ school had more of a community feel to it, the epitome of </span>
  <em>
    <span>we’re all in this together. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Most of the people at St Johns went onto Oxbridge but Eric had refused to apply, he hated all of the snobbish elitism much to his parents' disappointment. He wanted no part in it. He wasn’t very popular and didn’t put in more than a limited amount of effort to make friends. He didn’t keep in touch with anyone from secondary. Marcus had done the polar opposite.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Eric frowns. ‘’Well then. Who’s it for?’’</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He comes to the quick terrible conclusion that Marcus had invited </span>
  <em>
    <span>guests </span>
  </em>
  <span>round and his inner asocial self screams with agony. Marcus’ friends, any of them, are basically Marcus but on steroids- on rapid, illegal, <em>steroids</em>, Eric’s seen way too much teeth from the amount of times they</span>
  <em>
    <span> smile smile smile</span>
  </em>
  <span> and </span>
  <em>
    <span>laugh laugh laugh </span>
  </em>
  <span>whilst he scowls in the corner. The last time Marcus had invited one of his friends round, Eric had to fake being ill to get them to leave, it had been </span>
  <em>
    <span>that </span>
  </em>
  <span>bad. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But instead Marcus, unaware to Eric’s inner turmoil just nodded his head towards the door. ‘‘Neighbours.’’ </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Eric scoffs. Their neighbours were a toxic couple that had frequent fights at three am in the mornings and then loud, ferocious sex a couple of hours later before getting drunk by midday.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>‘’Not </span>
  <em>
    <span>them</span>
  </em>
  <span>.’’ Marcus says with a little laugh, giving Eric a knowing look. ‘’They moved out a couple of weeks ago. We’ve got new neighbours, now.’’</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>'‘Great.’’ Eric said faking a smile. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>‘'Glad to see you’re excited, then. You could come with me to give them my really good lemon cake even though you didn’t help with it at all. I’d still give you credit.’’</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>‘‘Of </span>
  <em>
    <span>course </span>
  </em>
  <span>you would.’’ Eric rolled his eyes and sat down with a sigh on the sofa, turning off the TV with a considerable amount of satisfaction - Katy Perry sucks-flinging his head back and breathing out a sigh of tiredness. Honestly, as much as he had taken the job as one last middle finger to his parents, he <em>despised</em> working at JD with spoiled and impatient teenagers who yelled at you to give them a bag without adding the extra 5p. Who did they think they were? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>‘‘I’m guessing that’s a no?'’ Marcus inquires, peering at him. He’s got his </span>
  <em>
    <span>Just be kind  </span>
  </em>
  <span>t-shirt on which Eric glares at.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>‘‘It’s a <em>never</em>.’’ What was this obsession with wanting to meet your neighbours anyways? Just because you lived next to each other it didn’t mean you had to become best buddy’s or anything. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>‘‘Alright, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Scrooge.</span>
  </em>
  <span>’ Marcus says before carrying his damn lemon cake across the hallway.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Eric dwells in the sudden silence of the room, the sudden emptiness of it all, there’s no phone buzzing, no Marcus humming annoyingly, no </span>
  <em>
    <span>Katy Perry music </span>
  </em>
  <span>, it’s strangely satisfying. Eric manages to get through three whole chapters of <em>Little Women</em> and then reply to the e-mail from his boss telling him to come in on Sunday. </span>
  <span>He emails back a </span>
  <em>
    <span>sure no problem :) </span>
  </em>
  <span>whilst dying inside.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He even manages to get through thirty minutes of Joe Wicks workout DVD without interruption and is out of breath as he lays on the floor staring up at the ceiling. He’s all too aware that Marcus has been gone for a </span>
  <em>
    <span>while </span>
  </em>
  <span>and it’s not that he misses him or anything but seriously how long does it take to hand over a cake? Three hours <em>could not</em> be an adequate answer.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> So he crawls over to his phone and scrolls down his contacts-not very far-and sends Marcus a text.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>
    <em>Taking a bit long..</em>
  </strong>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He waits for a couple of minutes, blinking down at his phone, hoping for any signs of a reply but nothing happens. '‘Fuck off.’ He mumbles quietly. He tries to carry on with <em>Little Women</em> but realises quickly that he’s hungry and how that lemon cake looked is making him reconsider all of his life choices and moral values.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Cake vs staying here by himself, which he would usually love, but he’s not really a chef and his stomach is starting to rumble. It isn’t like he would have to strike up a full conversation with the neighbours anyways, surely a simple </span>
  <em>
    <span>hey </span>
  </em>
  <span>would suffice?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’s ferociously debating in his head when miraculously the door opens and Marcus walks in. Eric has never been so happy to see him </span>
  <em>
    <span>ever.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>'</span>
  </em>
  <span>‘'Marcus!’' He greets, even managing to crack a smile. ‘‘Got any cake left?'’ </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But Marcus isn’t even looking at him, he’s rushing past him to the bathroom and breathing quickly like he’s just run around the world in 60 days, and spent an extra 2 days in Scotland just to tortue himself even further.  He’s got wide eyes that would be comical if Eric wasn’t so fucking hungry, a hand on his chest clutching on for dear life. Marcus stands in front of the bathroom mirror and wheezes in and out, <em>in and out</em>. </span>
</p><p> </p><p><span>‘‘Erm.’’ Eric says awkwardly.</span>‘'Are you having a panic attack?'’ Marcus shakes his head really quickly. ‘'Okay, so... Do you really need to shit or something-’'</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>''</span>
  <em>
    <span>Eric.</span>
  </em>
  <span>’' Marcus looks at him before laughing slightly. '‘I just spent hours talking to two of the boys on the bloody </span>
  <em>
    <span>England national team. </span>
  </em>
  <span>I need to let this out of my system.’'</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Eric just stares at him. ‘'Football?’' </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>'‘No, </span>
  <em>
    <span>cricket</span>
  </em>
  <span>.’'‘</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>‘’Sarcasm, isn’t a good look on you, Marcus. And anyways I don’t watch football. It’s too mainstream for me.’' </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>''Everything’s </span>
  </em>
  <span>too mainstream for you.'’ Marcus rolls his eyes. ‘'Does the name Jesse Lingard ring a bell? Or Dele Alli?’' </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He attempts to place the names within the context of Marcus regularly sitting down in front of the telly, volume turned up to a hundred as he watches Manchester United. Tries to remember whether he’d heard the names suddenly screamed by commentators with wild excitement. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>‘‘Those names sound fake.’’ Eric eventually says, disapprovingly. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>‘'Well, they’re very <em>real</em>. Isn’t that cool? Famous people living across the hallway.’'</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>'‘Hmm.’ Eric hummed, thinking about his stomach. It was more <em>inconvenient</em> than cool if he were perfectly honest. ‘’‘Got any cake left?’'</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>'No, actually. I think Jesse ate most of it.’' He makes a face. ‘'He really enjoyed it.'’ </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Eric makes a strangling motion with his hands and Marcus looks at him worriedly.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>‘‘Stupid <em>overpaid</em> footballers finishing all the cake. You should have charged them for it.’’</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>''But then that would make me Eric Dier, my mean, grumpy flatmate.’’ Marcus says with a smile. He seems much calmer now. Like he’s taking ownership of his new found </span>
  <em>
    <span>buddies </span>
  </em>
  <span>across the hallway. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Eric really thinks about it; <em>what the fuck?</em> And why? Footballers earn thousands per week, why would they even dare to live amongst peasants such as Eric who was sadly dependent on Marcus to help pay rent. At some point, splitting the rent had shifted to a ratio of 2:1  for Marcus. Not that he seemed to mind and knowing Eric and his pride, kindly decided not to mention it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘’If you’re that hungry I’m sure I could whip something up.’ Marcus, <em>sweet caring Marcus,</em> eventually concedes. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>‘’</span>
  <em>
    <span>This- this </span>
  </em>
  <span>is why I chose you as my flatmate. Don’t ever get a girlfriend.’’</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> ‘‘I won’t.’’ Marcus smirks, heading towards the kitchen with a flourish. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. ii</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>thanks for all the lovey support and comments, it's so motivating. updates will be once a week x</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>By chance or by fate or by God, an article with Dele Alli in the headlines pops up on his phone when he wakes up in the morning and he has no idea why because he has never even shown anything remotely close to interest in football, how much more a football</span>
  <em>
    <span>er</span>
  </em>
  <span> in particular. He generally deemed the whole thing as a scam, increasingly a capitalist endeavour in which average working class fans were shoved aside in favour of tourists and desperate middle class vloggers.  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It’s six A.M and he can already hear Marcus humming from his bedroom next door. He rolls onto his other side and unplugs his phone from the charger, before holding his phone above his face. He’s got a Huawei because he’s the least mainstream person ever. He would never lower himself to the generation of iPhone lovers that surrounded him, even if Marcus himself had succumbed to it. He attempts to swipe the notification away but ends up accidentally clicking on it with his clumsy fingers. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>DELE ALLI CHEATS ON GIRLFRIEND AT NIGHTCLUB IN LONDON </span>
  </em>
  <span>is the title of the article and Eric thinks </span>
  <em>
    <span>well that’s blunt. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Weren’t journalists supposed to add some alliteration at least? Make it a bit more creative? Wasn’t that the whole point of a degree in journalism? Or maybe he was confusing that with writers? Whatever, they were all one in the same. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>They’ve attached a picture of a boy who he assumes is, well, Dele Alli and a girl with bright blonde hair and a fur white coat holding hands. The picture is blurry, like the paparazzi dude had practically died to take it, the exclusive shot worth the risk.  Eric thinks that Dele Alli epitomises the modern footballer, overpaid, good looking and wearing those stupid round glasses that seems to be a trend. He looks seriously young, his skin clear and smooth- like only a couple of years younger than Eric. He looks like he’s been thrust into money and fame and girls and Eric immediately dislikes him. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He’s suddenly distracted by the unmistakable repetitive sound of a bedframe banging against a wall, something only made possible by the thrust of man which means sex and sex at this morning can only mean bloody Kyle Walker and John Stones.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>‘‘Fuck!’’ Eric yells, not bothering the muffle his yell into the pillow like he usually did. One of the worst things about the flats were the couple who lived directly above them. They were in that honeymoon period of their relationship, around the two month period- so too early for constant arguing but early </span>
  <em>
    <span>enough</span>
  </em>
  <span> for constant sex.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The sound of the bedframe continued. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Marcus stumbles into his room a little later. ‘’Don’t yell Eric, it’s too early for yelling.’’ </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>‘But it’s not too early for them to fuck each other into oblivion?’'</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span> '‘Would you rather them have sex in the evening, then?’'</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>‘'Don’t patronise me.’' </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>‘'I’m just saying. Not everyone is as miserable as you.’'</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span> ‘'I’m not miserable, I’m a realist. And <em>you</em> gave cake to a cheater.’' He waves his phone in front of Marcus’ face, like it’s a victory. He’s still salty over the cake situation. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Marcus shrugs. ‘'He seems like a sound lad but even so-it’s not my business is it? And neither is it yours. You need to go to work.’</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span> '‘Fuck.’' He says again, more quietly this time.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span> He’s still hasn’t moved a couple of minutes later so Marcus eventually drags him out of bed. After a quarter of an hour, he’s finally dragging his feet out of the building, and putting on his earphones as any London commuter would do to avoid the awkwardness of having a stranger randomly speak to you. Fits and The Tantrums croons into his ears soothingly and he almost, </span>
  <em>
    <span>almost </span>
  </em>
  <span>smiles..until a familiar hand is on his shoulder and he’s jerked back into ugly reality. He jumps back from the touch like he’s been shot and glares at John Stones whose hair looks messy and unkempt, whilst his shirt is inside out. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>'‘I </span>
  <em>
    <span>know </span>
  </em>
  <span>where your hands have been.’' He tells him straight. He’s not Rashford who would smile amicably. He wasn’t just going to stand there whilst John’s hands who’d probably been touching a cock tried to come near him. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>'‘C’mon, I’ve obviously showered.’'</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span> Eric raises an eyebrow. ‘'Is it that obvious?’' </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>John lau</span>
  <span>ghs, white teeth and all, a belly deep laugh. ‘'Alright, I’ll give you that. But you can’t keep avoidin’ me. We work at the same place.’'</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span> ‘’So?’'</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>'‘So we should be friends!’'</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>'‘No chance.’'</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span> A car beeps it’s horn obnoxiously and Eric realises they’ve been standing in front of a car. A very nice one at that. With his limited knowledge of cars he’s assumes that it’s a black Lamborghini and it’s kinda obvious that it belongs to the footballers, it stands out amongst all the average cars around it. Inside is Dele Alli who’s wearing orange tinted round glasses and what appears to be Jesse Lingard who’s got a huge </span>
  <em>
    <span>J </span>
  </em>
  <span>on the chain around his neck.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>'‘Christ.’' Eric murmurs before getting out of the way, a non subtly glancing John Stones following him promptly.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>'‘Christ.’' John repeats and Eric thinks </span>
  <em>
    <span>finally </span>
  </em>
  <span>something they agree on. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>'‘They look like pricks.'’ Eric says at the same time John says '‘They’re hot.'’</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Eric squints at John. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>'‘-Erm pricks.’' John adjusts. ‘'They look like hot pricks.’' </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>‘'Don’t get on the same bus as me.'’ Eric says to him even though he totally does. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>''So why are you so angry all the time?'’ John asks whilst they’re on a break at work.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Eric’s sat on the pavement outside of JD’s with a fag between his fingers staring blankly ahead across the road at the shitty park that only teenage boys with jeans half pulled up went to. Eric ignores his question and blinks twice. He’s been asked the question since he was in uni, when people would nudge him during lectures and ask </span>
  <em>
    <span>why are you frowning for? </span>
  </em>
  <span>Because you see, people loved to romanticise things. They wanted a heartfelt backstory, something like him having his heart broken when he was 18 or having a shitty relationship with his parents but it was none of these things. It was </span>
  <em>
    <span>nothing. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Maybe he just wasn’t a very bubbly person. Why couldn’t people just accept that?</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He inhales sharply before casting a look towards John. His cheeks are flushed with the cold but his blue eyes are bright, like he’s hopeful Eric will pour his heart out to him right here, on the pavement with bird poop nearby, outside JD’s. Instead Eric asks. ‘'Do you smoke?’'</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span> John looks surprised but then he sits up a little straighter. ‘'Used to.’' He half shrugs and half smiles. ‘'But Kyle didn’t like it, so. So I stopped.’'</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span> ‘How thoughtful.’ Eric mocks with a laugh. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>John stares at him carefully. He doesn’t know why but he’s trying to push John’s buttons, trying to get a reaction out of him that isn’t so positive.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>'‘Is that what love is then? Giving up a nasty habit for someone who </span>
  <em>
    <span>doesn’t like it</span>
  </em>
  <span>.’'</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span> John tilts his head to the side before grinning. ‘'Guarantee you wouldn’t know what love was even if it moved in next door.'’ He wraps an arm around Eric’s broad shoulders like they’ve been best buddies for years. Eric stiffens instinctively.  ‘'C’mon Eric, loosen up a bit. Me and Kyle are going out next weekend. Come with?'’ </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>'‘Yeah, no thanks.’'</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>'‘It’s a high school reunion thing. There’ll be lots of girls.’'</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>'‘I don’t care about girls.’' Eric says. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>John pauses. ‘'Well, boys then. And they’ll all be pissed so you don’t have to do much of the talking part which I know you hate.'’ </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He’s still not utterly convinced but his dick is telling him that it’s a while since he even got laid so he goes, '‘Alright.’' And John fucking jumps up like a kangaroo and starts celebrating like-like he’s just won the lottery or something.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>'‘Wow.'’ He says with a dopey grin. '‘I can’t believe you said yes.'’ </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>'‘I said </span>
  <em>
    <span>alright</span>
  </em>
  <span>.’' </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>'‘C’mon breaks over.'' John says pulling him up the arm. The cigarette drops to the floor and John steps on it. '‘You’re a good guy, really.’' He says as they walk back inside. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>**</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Eric is on chapter seven of Little Women when there’s a knock on the front door. He naturally ignores it, expecting Marcus to answer, so he continues to read, flipping the page. It’s a peaceful Tuesday afternoon, it always is whenever Marcus isn’t playing music loudly or humming or doing something that may in whatever way affect Eric. The fading daylight seeps through his bedroom windows, basking the room with authentic light, making his blue bed sheets look a shade lighter. But then he hears the knock again, and then two in quick succession.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>'‘Marcus!’' He yells.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span> ‘’M showering!’' Comes the muffled reply. Why the hell is he showering so late? </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>'‘Shit.'’ He swears. He isn’t expecting anyone and he hates it when people show up uninvited, it should be a bloody crime. He reluctantly emerges from his bedroom, passing the bathroom- which, as he approaches, he hears Marcus fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>humming</span>
  </em>
  <span>- before opening the door. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He really isn’t expecting to see Dele Alli standing there with two packets of jaffa cakes in his hand and ripped jeans and those dumb round orange tinted glasses again. Like are they attached to his face or something? He thinks Dele was probably expecting Marcus because he just stares at him like..like-Eric’s not sure what like. He’s just staring.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>'‘Well, hi.'’ Eric says carefully. He thinks he’s done good. He doesn’t sound too unfriendly. He can just picture Marcus like the angel on his shoulder guiding him to saying the right things so as not to come off as a complete </span>
  <em>
    <span>dickhead</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>'‘Yeah.’' Dele says after a beat. ‘'Me and Jesse brought jaffa cakes ‘cause we thought it was nice that-uh, nice that Marcus baked a cake, so.’ </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Eric looks at him thinking </span>
  <em>
    <span>cheater </span>
  </em>
  <span>remembering the article he’d seen. And also maybe because he’s kind of surprised by the gesture and this doesn’t really fit with the Dele Alli that dresses like a cunt and cheats on his girlfriend. So.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>'‘How much did you pay for that, then?'’ He decides to ask instead. Footballers with all their millions and he could only sniff up two packets of jaffa cakes. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>'‘</span>
  <em>
    <span>Eric </span>
  </em>
  <span>, fucks sake.'’ He turns to see Marcus darting towards him with his red towel wrapped around his waist. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>‘'Ignore him.’' Marcus says to Dele with an apologetic smile. Only Marcus could still look so composed whilst half naked and with bits of soap in his hair. Eric glances at Dele who’s looking back observantly. ‘'This is really great, you didn’t have to, you know. I love jaffa cakes as well, was that a lucky guess or something? And two as well-'’ </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Marcus is rambling happily and Dele clearly isn’t even listening, he’s just </span>
  <em>
    <span>staring </span>
  </em>
  <span>and Eric isn’t used to staring competitions because it’s really fucking intrusive, so he shrinks backwards and heads to his room feeling weird. </span>
  <em>
    <span>And</span>
  </em>
  <span> , he thinks as an afterthought, he </span>
  <em>
    <span>hates </span>
  </em>
  <span>jaffa cakes. They taste shit.  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>A couple of minutes later, Marcus strolls in. ‘'Why can’t you at least be rude behind people’s backs or something?’' </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>'‘Wow, did </span>
  <em>
    <span>Marcus </span>
  </em>
  <span>just say that?’'</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span> Marcus rolls his eyes but his lips betray him with a smile as he perks on the side of the bed, still with his towel on. They both sit in silence for a bit before Marcus shifts. ‘'What if I told you I had a crush on a boy?'’ </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Eric furrows his eyebrows. ‘'I would be like </span>
  <em>
    <span>okay</span>
  </em>
  <span>, even though I didn’t ask.’'</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>'‘Alright so what if I told you the boy lived in this very building?’'</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span> ‘'As I said, </span>
  <em>
    <span>I didn’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>bloody ask.’'</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>'‘On this very floor.’'</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>'‘I don’t care.’'</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span> ‘'It’s Jesse. Jesse Lingard.’' </span>
  <span> Marcus blurts very quickly like he’s been holding it in forever.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>'‘What the fuck.’' Eric says.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>'‘I don’t know, I don’t know.’' Marcus says like he’s panicking. ‘'But like every time we see each other he’s like </span>
  <em>
    <span>y’alright </span>
  </em>
  <span>and smiles and stuff. And when I went round there with my lemon cake, he was giving me those kind of vibes, you know? Like maybe I’m reading it wrong, but.’'</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>‘'Eurgh.'’ Eric says shaking his head. He leans back against his bed frame and gives Marcus a disapproving look. ‘'Setting yourself up for disappointment. Footballers are like rats, you know? Just jumping from one house to another.’'</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span> Marcus glances at him. ‘'And what would you know about footballers, Eric? It’s too mainstream for you remember?’'</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>'‘Did I hit a nerve or something?’'</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>'‘Oh shut up.’' Marcus says getting up from the bed. ‘' You can be such a prick sometimes.'’ </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Eric watches him leave with a twinge of guilt. He didn’t realise it was </span>
  <em>
    <span>that </span>
  </em>
  <span>deep. But he was just trying to be somewhat of a good friend. What idiot would allow themselves to have a crush on a footballer? It wasn’t like it was a realistic prospect. And that was what Eric Dier was; the ultimate realist. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>**</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <span>By the time the weekend rolls around, he’s seriously second guessing his decision to say ‘Alright.’ when John and Kyle turn up holding hands, with large grins on their faces like they’ve just finished a massive snog. Eric makes a face and stares blankly at them.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>'‘Prepare to be entertained.’' Kyle says dramatically, bouncing up on his tiptoes. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>'‘Prepare to get laid, more like.’' John winks him. ‘'Am I right or am I right?'’</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>'‘Let’s just go.’' Eric says brushing past the both of them. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It’s late and the sun is setting, a soft glow of orange, that makes everything look like it’s from a disney scene. Kyle and John are like that lovesick couple that Eric used to scribble on when he was younger. He’s third wheeling like crazy in the backseat of Kyle’s car, watching the two of them bicker domestically over which radio station to have on, eventually settling on BBC Sport Radio which is banging on about the world cup in Russia because apparently that’s a big thing.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span> ‘It’s coming home.’ Kyle says. And then rolling down the car window he yells ‘It’s fucking coming home!’ and they almost crash into a lampost but everything is okay because the two of them are just laughing and Eric is clinging onto his seatbelt which isn’t tight enough and that really fucking sucks. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>One of the men on the radio sounds like Father Christmas with his optimism and </span>
  <em>
    <span>ho ho ho </span>
  </em>
  <span>laugh. ‘It’ll be 1966 all over again. All we need is Kane and Dele! Sod the bloody Russians and Germans, this one is ours!’ </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It seems like the whole world is happy that evening, when they get out of the car there’s a stray white puppy that grins up at him and all the lights inside are on, so bright and lumiant. There’s cars parked all around the place.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span> ‘People are going to be in for a shock.’ Kyle is saying. ‘Geeky Walksit’s gone and bagged himself a mint boyfriend.’ </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Eric perks up at that. ‘</span>
  <em>
    <span>You </span>
  </em>
  <span>were geeky?’ He asks in disbelief.</span>
  <span> Kyle looks like one of those boys that all the girls would have wanted to shag, like an absolute </span>
  <em>
    <span>lad. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>‘Geeky Walksit. God, I hated that nickname.’ </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>‘Geeky Walksit..’ John says teasingly. ‘I’ll remember that one.’</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span> It’s so typical that Drake is playing when they eventually squeeze inside the house, it smells like weed and sweat and Eric has the split panic moment of feeling like the walls are closing in on him before he takes a deep breath. He loses Kyle and John easily but Kyle made it pretty clear that he was going to show John off to everyone so he doesn’t bother looking for them. He’s not sure what to do with himself, just stood in the hallway watching people move up and down the staircase, spilling drinks down their dresses, feeling each other up, singing into each other’s ears. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Maybe, he thinks. Maybe that’s why he’s like this, so cynical and pessimistic because at the end of the day he’ll always be alone. It’s just him against the world and every person that enters his life is just fleeting, like shooting stars or a ship on the horizon, just passing by. He almost forgets why he came and then he remembers and looks around for any guy who’s got a </span>
  <em>
    <span>vibe. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He approaches some white guy with green eyes and touches his shoulder, waits to see how he reacts, and when the guy smiles he asks. ‘'Want to fuck?’'</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span> I</span>
  <span>t’s blunt and upfront, the way Eric is about everything. </span>
  <span>The sex is blunt and upfront and is done in the uncomfortable space of a wardrobe in one of the rooms upstairs. He leaves straight after feeling strikingly sober and shit.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The block of flats looks inviting as he enters the building and uses the lift, ignoring the way it judders slightly. He feels like he’s used up his socialising tank and just wants to lie down with his iconic copy of Little Women which he doesn’t even like but reading it makes him feel calm and safe. It isn’t fleeting. It’s a book. It won’t go anywhere, it will always be there. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He reaches for his pocket to open the door to his flat when he realises he didn’t take his bloody keys. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>‘'Marcus.’' He says, just loud enough so even if the TV’s on he’ll hear. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>There’s no response so he knocks again. ‘'Marcus.’' </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>'‘Fuck.'’ He adds. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span><em>Of course</em> Marcus goes out the one time Eric forgets his keys. He’s not sure what to do so he stands outside in the hallway until his legs get tired so he settles down on the floor with his legs crossed. He sends Marcus a text but doesn’t get a reply.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>'‘Marcus went out with Jesse.'’ </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He looks up and sees Dele in front of him. Eric can actually see his eyes this time and they’re brown. He’s got a tracksuit on and a gold rolex watch which Eric can’t help but look at.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>'‘In case you were wondering.'’ He adds, like an afterthought. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Eric nods, mostly to himself. Since when did Marcus and Jesse even hang like bros? He felt weirdly protective. He’d never even spoken to Jesse before. How did he know he wasn’t a creep or something?</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p><span>'‘Did you like the jaffa cakes?’' </span>Dele is asking, hands tucked into his pockets.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>'‘I hate jaffa cakes.’' Eric replies. ‘'Marcus liked them, though.'’</p>
<p> </p>
<p>There’s silence and then he watches as Dele gets out his own set of keys, opening his door and Eric gets a glimpse of a plasma sized telly and red large sized rugs but then Dele is pausing to turn back. '‘Five pounds.’' He tells him. '</p>
<p> </p>
<p>'‘What?’'</p>
<p> </p>
<p>'‘You asked me last time, so. I spent five pounds on the jaffa cakes.’'</p>
<p> </p>
<p>And then he goes inside and closes the door. Eric stares at the door for longer than he should before he looks down at his phone. </p>
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